


A Couple of Choices

by CaptainLevi



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Sherlock (TV) Fusion, BAMF John, Case Fic, Falling In Love, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, Investigation, John is a police officer, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Murder, POV John Watson, POV Sherlock Holmes, Police Officer John, Protective John, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-22
Updated: 2017-09-05
Packaged: 2018-12-18 16:52:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11878749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainLevi/pseuds/CaptainLevi
Summary: For two years, Detective Inspector John Watson of New Scotland Yard has been obsessed with finding the killer of his sister Harry and her wife Clara. He thinks all hope is lost until he meets the world's only consulting detective.





	1. Chapter 1

Sound of sirens. Heavy rain outside, and the smell of something rotten and stale. It was all so reminiscent of that awful night. The moment John stepped through the door, he knew. It was the same murder, the same person, the same way. His heart was pounding as he surveyed the initial signs.  
"Anderson" John nodded distractedly at the pathologist as he entered the house, bending to cross underneath the crime scene tape.  
"Wa… hold on!" Anderson yelled and followed him, John rolled his eyes and kept walking.  
"You know if you keep doing this you're going to get sacked" Anderson spat in a low voice as he handed him gloves. By now, he knew better than to try to stop him.  
"Yeah, yeah. I'll wait for the full version of the tantrum when Lestrade shows up. Now lead the way."  
Philip huffed in annoyance and led him up the stairs and into a spacious bedroom on the second floor. The two bodies were lying side by side as if in an embrace on the bed. They both had gunshot wounds. The woman right through the temple, and the man through his forehead.  
The image triggered a flash of memories in John's mind. Blood, stained wedding bands, vacant eyes. He shuddered and shook his head, secretly thankful that Anderson wasn't looking in his direction.  
"They were found at approximately 11:30 am today. Neighbor had a break down and she's out of it, can't really give a statement now." He said as John kneeled on the edge of the bed to examine the gun in the husband's hand. Crime scene personnel were passing by around them, some of them glaring at John meaningfully.  
"Now where and why would a suburban husband get a gun like that?" He whispered more to himself than to anyone around. He was so deep in thought that he flinched slightly when his phone started ringing "Here we go" he said wearily and stood up straight to answer.  
"Watson"  
"Detective Inspector Watson," the familiar voice of the operator came, sounding impatient, "the superintendent was looking for you. May I connect?"  
"Absolutely. Put him through." John answered quietly and with a practiced motion took out his phone's battery and shoved it in his the pocket of his jacket.  
"Look who's here… again!" a gruff weary voice came from the door and John turned around  
"If it's not the Yard's least favorite detective inspector for two years in a row" Greg said with a grin both exasperated and amused.  
"Oi, wanker," John answered with a wry smile.  
"Mind telling me what you're doing here. This isn't your jurisdiction as I trust everyone has been informing you repeatedly." He cast a look in Anderson's direction, who lifted his hand in surrender and left the room.  
"The superintendent just called me, he's pretty pissed" Greg said again.  
"Yeah well, tell him to shove off. You know why I'm here." John's tone turned serious "It's a crime scene."  
"John, I'm not going to tell him anything. And as a matter of fact, no, it's not. It's not a crime scene. Not the way you mean. This is a murder-suicide. This man killed his wife, then killed himself, and that's what the coroner's going to find and that's how the case will be recorded."  
Greg paused but John didn't say anything, he was busy inspecting the couple's wedding photographs on the wall and a small collection of DvD's stored in a box on the shelf.  
"There's no need for an investigation, there's no need for a detective. Particularly one who's outside his jurisdiction and is on the verge of being suspended."  
But John wasn't entirely paying attention. He preferred to discuss what was really important at the moment. He had no time to waste talking about jurisdiction and suspension.  
"Greg, you ever seen this?" he held out a DvD case.  
He looked confused but answered anyway "What? Gandhi? I think so."  
"Belongs to them. They owned it."  
"Yeah? So?"  
"So you're telling me a young, married couple whose idea of a hot Friday night is watching the biography of the father of the Antiviolence Movement keep an unregistered, loaded 32 in their flat?" John was speaking enthusiastically now, unable to contain himself, everything was so obvious, all the pieces were falling into place. "I don't think so. Someone did this. This is like the other ones, Greg. They're all connected."  
"Yeah" Greg sighed and John cringed at the look of sympathy verging on pity that he gave him. "But why are you the only one who sees it?"  
\---  
Sherlock was bent over kitchen table, torch in one hand, eyeballs in the other. His hands were working animatedly, but his favorite pastime was quickly turning dull after seven entire days of no cases from Lestrade.  
He leaned over the table, extracted a nicotine patch and stuck it next to the one that was already on his arm. He tried to focus his attention on the experiment in his hands, though every cell in his body was urging him to think of one thing: Cocaine.  
His phone chimed and he almost jumped up and down when he saw it was from Greg. Yes, case, finally!  
"Need a favor." The text said. So much for the 'game is on.'  
"I don't do favors. SH" he sent his reply and went back to his torch and fresh organs.  
"Might be interesting" Sherlock eyed the phone screen suspiciously. There was no such thing as an interesting favor, but at this point he was desperate for any distraction. His brain was going to rot and he was willing to leave the flat even for a five. Before he could type in a reply a new text came.  
"One thing though" it said, "It's not for me, it's for a colleague."  
"Fine. SH"  
Sherlock pushed the buttons hesitantly, but he couldn't help a twinge of curiosity. Since when does Greg tell colleagues about what Sherlock did with the Yard? Odd.  
"I'm coming by." The last text from Greg read.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The queen of plagiarism strikes again. This is a story is based on an episode of an old show called Medium which I used to love watching, but I will be changing a lot about the characters and plot so it's isn't really the same. As always, comments are welcomed and received with tiny hysterical fits of excitement. Love!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock to the rescue :)

"I could have taken a cab" Sherlock said as soon as he hopped in the car next to Greg "You didn't have to come all the way to get me. You know I hate riding in police cars."  
"I needed to talk to you first."  
"Must you?" Sherlock rolled his eyes. He was not in the mood for tedious introductions, he needed a puzzle to solve, but Greg ignored him and started talking anyway as he drove away from Baker Street.  
"You know, I've never really shared with anyone who you are or what you do. I mean, Anderson and Donovan obviously know by now, but I never told any other… colleagues"  
Sherlock remained silent, waiting for the melodramatic opening speech to be over so that Greg would cut to the chase.  
"But I have a friend, he's a police detective. And… for the past two years or so he's been obsessed with a string of deaths."  
"And?" Sherlock's patience was running thin.  
"And it's destroying his career. He's ignoring all his other work.  
I don't think his personal life is anything to write home about either."  
"So, what about those deaths?"  
"He sees a crime where others just see personal turmoil.  
He sees a pattern where others see only random tragedy. He can't find proof but he won't believe anyone who'd tell him otherwise either."  
"You want me to baby-sit some delusional friend of yours as a favor," Sherlock glared at him, he really wasn't that desperate for a case after all. "Probably a personal trauma masked by an invented conspiracy theory. Dull."   
"Just listen to what he has to say, alright?" Greg's tone was pleading "He is not delusional, he just needs help. If this really turns out to be just him seeing things then you're the only one who can convince him." he said as he pulled over by a small house that looks as if it had been recently renovated.  
"He'll tell you all about it." He turned to face Sherlock "He's waiting for you at the crime scene inside. I've asked them to leave the bodies and everything else they found exactly the way they found it. I was pretty vague with him. I told him that you were someone who worked for me, someone I trust. Take a look and tell me what you think."  
"Fine." Sherlock huffed as he exited the car.  
"Sherlock" Greg called to him before he was all the way out, and Sherlock turned back and waited.  
"Thank you" Greg cleared his throat uncomfortably "Really. John is a dear friend and this means a lot to him."  
"Ugh. Don't go all soft on me now Lestrade. Just keep bloody Anderson out of my face and we'll call it even."  
"Arse" Greg said as he drove away, though he was smiling. 

\-------  
John was crouching on the bedroom floor, taking photos of the room and bodies from various angles when he heard the front door down stairs. Lestrade's mysterious friend has arrived, it seemed.  
"Hello?" He heard the deep voice calling from below.  
"Up here," John called back "Put some gloves on, they're by the door."   
He heard the shuffle as the man retrieved some gloves and came upstairs.  
"Mr. Holmes, I presume?" John said as he stood up and turned around.  
"Sherlock, please."  
For a moment John was a bit startled. He hadn't really known what to expect when Greg told him about some friend who can help with the case, but he definitely did not expect a young man looking like a super model, sauntering into the crime scene as if it was his living room. They shook hands and John tried not to stare.  
"Detective Inspector Watson, but you can call me John."  
Sherlock bent down to inspect the two bodies, and John stood mesmerized for a moment before he remembered he was supposed to be having a conversation with the man.  
"Are you Lestrade's friend then?"  
"More of a compulsory acquaintance, I'm afraid. So, what do we have here?"  
"Young married couple found shot to death. Husband was 29, wife was 27. Coroner thinks the husband put a bullet in his wife's head, then turned the gun on himself."  
"So, what do you think happened?" Sherlock said, standing up straight and looking at John with those piercing eyes.  
"I don't know." John shook his head "Not that" he shrugged.  
"Not that"? That's your basis for an investigation?"  
Here we go, John thought, one more person who won't believe it, won't see it. He sighed and pinched between his eyes as he felt the beginning of a headache approaching.  
"Look, I don't know what it is exactly you do with Greg, I don't know what your specialty is, forensics? Linguistics? Criminology? Maybe you were with the SIS for all I know. Me? I'm just a cop, not a specialist. I can tell you that I could look at a suspect from 30 feet away and tell you if he's going to pull out a gun on me in the next 10 seconds, and I'd be always right. Instinct. It got me this far, so I listen to it."

"Is there anything else?" Sherlock quirked an eyebrow, strangely looking amused.  
"Yes. In the past 27 months, there have been three cases in London of supposed murder-suicides among couples married little more than a year."  
"Well, they do say the first year's the hardest."  
"Funny. I wouldn't know." John glared at him. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all.   
"What I do know is, in the 90-some years prior to that, in fact for as long as they kept records, there wasn't one other case thought to be murder-suicide among couples married more than one year but less than two. Not one." John finished.  
Sherlock just stood there, tilting his head as he maintained intense eye contact with him.   
"All right. Give me a minute," he said as he turned to look at the room. His clever eyes roaming his surroundings.  
John found himself wondering what he was thinking about for some reason.  
\-------  
"Shut up" Sherlock snapped. He could practically hear the detective's brain working behind him.   
"I didn't say anything!" John replied.  
"You were thinking. It's annoying."  
He turned around to glare in his direction, but instead of the anger he expected, John looked like he was trying not to laugh.  
"I can see why Greg warned me about you. You're impossible" John shook his head, now genuinely smiling.   
"Don't be ridiculous. I can't be impossible, I exist."  
To his amazement, John giggled.  
"Sorry." He quickly regained his composure "So, what do you think? Got any ideas?"  
"Yes. You're right, this is isn't suicide-murder."

For a moment John just stared, then he took a step towards him, navy blue eyes carefully searching his face, and just then it occurred to Sherlock how horrible it must have been, not to be believed or listened to all that time, even by friends. He thought of Carl Powers and how furious and frustrated he had been when no one wanted to listen.  
"Tell me." John almost whispered, his voice uneven  
Sherlock felt an odd twinge at the faith this man was obviously putting in him. Why did he care what this stranger thought of him anyway? He quickly wore his usual cold expression and slipped into his element.  
"Look at them. It's obvious," he turned to gesture at the bodies.   
"They're both in sitting positions, so they were both awake when they were killed. Assuming the husband did this, he would have had to stand by the bed to shoot the wife, why would he shoot her while sitting so close to her like that, twisting his arm to get the right angle. Makes no sense. More importantly, the blood pattern on the headboard and wall clearly suggests that the bullet came from a higher angle, not one that was at the same level as her head."  
He gestured with his hand, imitating the shape of a gun barrel with his finger and pointing it in an angle that was consistent with the blood splashed behind the victim.  
"So the shooter was indeed standing, but let's picture this situation. If the wife had been awake with her husband standing in front of her with a gun, wouldn’t she have tried to run or at least struggle before getting shot? But she clearly didn't, or else the bullet wound would be in the back of her head. Now, why would she just calmly receive a bullet, unless someone else was there, someone who had been threatening both of them before killing them."  
He paused, and looked around the place before continuing  
"Look at this place, they'd just renovated. Why would a man invest in a home if he wanted to kill his wife and himself, and…" He stopped and abruptly walked out of the room, there was something he needed to find. John was right behind him when he opened a door to a smaller room next to the master bedroom. It was empty, but clearly just recently repainted with a light shade of pink.  
"The husband had something pink under his nails, have you noticed?"  
John shook his head slowly, his eyes going wide.  
"She was pregnant. Why would he take the time to paint a room for his unborn child if he had been planning to end their lives?"  
Sherlock felt the adrenaline already flooding his veins, his heart jumping with euphoria, and his brain racing with the excitement.  
"We've got a serial killer on our hands, detective."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this lacks romance but I promise lots of fluff is on the way. Thanks to whoever is reading, you're awesome and I hope you have an amazing weekend :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mrs. Hudson ships Johnlock so hard <3

By the time John had talked to the crime scene personnel, signed off work, and collected the old case files from his flat, the clock had ticked past midnight. But he felt more alive than he had in years. His heart was racing as he approached Baker Street in his car, box of files and dinner next to him on the passenger seat.

He rang the bell to 221B, but when the door opened, it wasn't a grumpy pale face with eyes like supernovas, but rather an old woman in a purple night gown looking suspiciously at him.

"Yes?" she said over the sound of gentle music coming from somewhere inside.

"Hello. I'm looking for Sherlock Holmes."

"Oh, are you a client?" she asked warily.

"What… no, I'm a… friend… colleague" he hastily corrected, though he wasn't sure either word was accurate.

Suddenly the woman gave him a strangely cunning smile and a wink that did not look the least appropriate on her kind, delicate face. John frowned.

"So is he here?"

"Yes, come on in, love. He's upstairs playing that godforsaken violin of his. Just keep it down boys, I have to be up early tomorrow and I know that old bed upstairs creaks so much."

John felt heat rise in his face as he finally understood what she had been insinuating. For some reason, words betrayed him and all he could do was stammer as he crossed the threshold.

"I'm not… we're not…"

"Mrs. Hudson, will you please stop badgering my guest!" Sherlock's voice came from upstairs just as the music came to a halt.

"I'll just…" John gestured at the stares with a nod of his head, his hands occupied, carrying the box and food.

"Oh, go on dear, don't let me keep you. You boys have fun."

John was quick to flee the scene.

The door to the flat upstairs was wide open, and John let himself in, surveying the room as he put everything on the coffee table. Sherlock was standing by the window, still dressed in his impeccable suit and holding a violin in his hand. He looked like a mythical creature in the weak light. His pale eyes seemed to be capable of reflecting every color to ever exist.

"You brought food" he glanced at the table, but didn't seem like he was excited about the idea.

"Yeah, I haven't had the chance to get dinner. Thought I'd bring some Chinese for us to have before we discuss the cases."

"I don't eat while working" Sherlock said as he carefully sit his violin in its case, "Slows me down. You can have your dinner nonetheless. I don't mind."

"Okay, then." John said, and started opening a box and grabbing chopsticks.

"I think your neighbor got the wrong impression about me… us. Sorry, I didn't really correct her."

"My landlady."

"Mm?"

"She's my landlady."

"Oh. She seemed to think we're… I'm… your boyfriend or something." He let out a nervous laugh. Sherlock remained silent and extracted one of the files from the box. He sat in a black chair by the fireplace and started skimming through the pages.

"Don't wanna cause any trouble… you know, with your girlfriend." John said between bites of dumpling.

Sherlock looked up from the file as if the last word was the most confusing thing he'd ever heard.

"Girlfriend? Not really my area." He waved a hand dismissively.

"Oh. Do you have a boyfriend then?"

What the fuck was he blabbing about? Was he hitting on Greg's friend… whom he had met only today? God, but he hasn’t had a good shag in so long, it must have been getting to his head.

"No" Sherlock's answer was short and distracted as he went back to the file in his hands.

"Okay. You’re unattached. Like me." He looked down awkwardly at his plate, "Fine. Good."

John Watson should simply lose the privilege to speak… forever.

At first Sherlock didn't seem to pay him any attention, but then he suddenly lifted his head and eyed him suspiciously. He seemed to be trying to decide on what he wanted to say. John simply watched the strangest expressions of confusion and puzzlement pass through the pale face before he finally spoke.

"John, um ... I think you should know that I consider myself married to my work, and while I’m flattered by your interest, I’m really not looking for any ..."  
Oh, the horror.

"No." John interrupted in a tone just a bit higher than intended "No, I’m not asking… No." He cleared his throat, feeling Sherlock's suspicious gaze on him.

"Anyway, I _AM_ your work right now, so consider yourself married to me until this case is closed." Almost immediately, he regretted the poor attempt at humor. Alright, change of topics… Go!

He got up, stood next to Sherlock's chair and leaned down to look at the photos in the file before him.

"Patrick and Jennifer Wilson. They were the second couple. Married a little over a year too" he said in a strained voice.

Sherlock was looking intently at him, but when John met his gaze he noticed he hadn't been looking at his face, but rather at the silver bracelet around his wrist. John withdrew slowly and slipped his hands in the pockets of his jeans.

\-----

"Show me the file of your brother and his wife." Sherlock said, handing the file he already read back to John "They were the first couple weren't they?"

"How…"

"Obvious. You don't seem like a man who wears jewelry, and yet you have a silver bracelet. Looks expensive too, you wouldn't waste money on such an item. It's a keepsake, but it wasn't given to you. The expense of it says wife, not girlfriend, but you already said you have never been married when I mentioned it earlier at the crime scene.

So, it belonged to someone close, Not your father, this is a young man’s item, brother, then. The encryption says from Clara to Harry… definitely a married couple, but why are YOU wearing it? Since the bracelet was originally owned by Harry then he must be deceased, and considering your obsession with this string of deaths for the past two years, I can deduce Harry and Clara were the first victims… two years ago."

He decided not to wait for John to hand him the file and shuffled through the box on the table to retrieve it.

"Ah, there. Harry and Clara Watson."

"You're incredible you know that" John said, but his smile looked sad and strained, and he was unconsciously stroking the metal around his right wrist.

"But Harry was short for Harriet" He looked at Sherlock again, still smiling.

"Sister!" Sherlock berated himself "There’s always something."

John smiled at him amusedly and continued.

"They both would have died for each other. Nothing complicated about it. They didn't do it to each other. Someone did it to them. Same thing in every case." He gestured at the box.  
"Yes well, Serial killers are always hard. You have to wait for them to make a mistake. That's why they're fun."

"Do you think this one will make a mistake?" John asked, the look he gave Sherlock was startling, it was a mixture of fascination and barely suppressed hope. But there was something else in the navy blue eyes… a hunger for adrenaline, for danger.

"I think he’s brilliant enough. I love the brilliant ones. They’re always so desperate to get caught."

They sat in silence for a couple of minutes before John spoke again.

"Is this how you've been helping Lestrade, then? You've been helping him solve crimes?"

"No. I've been solving the crimes myself. Lestrade is an idiot."

"He is" John grinned.

Sherlock looked at him in surprise.

"He's an idiot for not introducing us before." John said and made a grab for one of the files.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are about to get messy!  
> Please feel free to point out any mistakes to me, English is not my mother tongue!
> 
> Thanks to whoever's reading, have a wonderful day :)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Important discoveries are made.

It was raining so hard, it felt like the city was being washed inside out. John's windscreen wipers worked frantically to clear the glass enough for him to see ahead.  
Greg hadn't said anything, he had just told him to come to Harry's flat, no explanation. Nothing. He ascended the stairs slowly, trying to tell himself everything would be alright, but his instincts knew better.  
The door was wide open, crime scene tape, technicians, crackling sounds of radio, and the smell of death…  
Greg tried to stop him before he went inside, but he pushed him aside slowly and approached the bodies slumped on the sofa. Harry's face looked sad, as if she had fallen into an uncomfortable slumber, and Clara's face was buried in her arms.  
All those years, John had tried to protect his baby sister. Every time their father had come home drunk and started breaking things, John had stood between him and the shaking terrified heap that was Harry. All he ever wanted was for her to be happy and safe, and someone had come and taken all that away in a moment, leaving a gun in her hand. As if John would for a second believe she had done this to the woman she loved, the woman she quit drinking for.   
He came closer, feeling his breath catch and his eyes sting. He wanted to comfort her one last time, to tell her he's sorry for not protecting her this time.   
Suddenly, she opened bloodshot eyes, dark blue irises that so resembled his own stared at him sadly.  
"Help me Johnny" the bluish lips spoke, and John woke up with a jolt.  
His phone was ringing, he looked at the clock. It was 5 am. He had left Sherlock's flat not two hours ago and barely got a couple of hours of restless sleep.  
"Watson" he answered, still clenching and unclenching his hand, trying to stop the shiver, but as soon as he heard the following few sentences on the other end of the phone call he was wide awake, on his feet trying to locate his trousers.  
Just before he got in his car he quickly typed a text, hesitating before hitting send, but then thought Sherlock wasn't the kind to want to miss this.  
John made it to the station just as a wide-eyed, disheveled man was being hauled into the investigation room. He didn't wait and followed without a word, snatching along the hastily typed brief from a grumpy looking Sally Donovan.  
The man was put in a chair in the tiny room, he was aimlessly staring at the wall, looking almost catatonic.  
"Mr. Knight." John called as he sat opposite him.  
The man didn't seem to hear anything.  
"Mr. Knight… Henry," John repeated "Do you know where you are?"  
Henry's eyes shifted slowly to him, but there was no answer.  
"Can you tell me what happened to your wife?"  
"I killed her" Henry said in almost a whisper, and John shivered at the cold, lifeless voice.  
"Are you admitting that you murdered your wife?" John asked.  
"He gave me a choice, and I chose." The trembling voice answered.  
"What choice? Who gave you a choice Henry?"  
"I could feel her blood, it was so warm and she fell in my arms. I killed her!" Henry said, tears now falling from his dead eyes.  
"It's important that you tell me Henry, you have to tell me. Other people are in danger."   
"He said I was the first to ever do it, the only one!"  
John was starting to lose control, but the man did not seem to hear him or want to respond to him in any way. He decided to leave the room before he'd lose his temper.  
"Has a psychologist talked to him yet?" he asked Donovan wearily.  
"Not yet, we're trying to bring someone in, but it's a bit hard at the bloody crack of dawn."  
"We need to go to the crime scene" a deep voice said from behind them. John turned around to find Sherlock casually standing there, looking not just too alert for the hour, but also as polished and pristine as he could. Was he even human?  
\-----  
"When did you get here?" John stared at him with bloodshot eyes, silver blonde hair sticking out in a way that made Sherlock want to smile for some reason.  
"Early enough. I got the chance to hear your conversation with Mr. Knight. There's no point trying to interrogate him at the moment, he is clearly in shock. We need to go to the crime scene, John"  
"Oh, no. not you too, Watson, is the freak hypnotizing every officer I know?" Donovan rolled her eyes at him.  
John ignored her, "call me when he's ready to talk" he said and beckoned Sherlock outside.  
He got in the passenger seat next to John, who turned to look at him before starting the car.  
"It's the same guy isn't it?" He said, his voice slightly uneven "Tell me I'm not insane. Tell me it's related."  
For a moment, Sherlock did not speak, he felt caught in the electric blue gaze, his eyes unconsciously fell to the parted lips where small huffs of breath were forming tiny clouds of fog in the cold air. How very distracting.  
"You're not insane" He hoped he didn't sound as dazed as he felt. His idiotic heart flipped when John smiled at him, his eyes crinkling slightly, before he started the car and began to drive.   
The house was not far. It was small but with an elegant air of domesticity. Most of the crime scene personnel had cleared off by the time they arrived, which was better. Sherlock could think properly, uninterrupted.  
They went into the bedroom, where the young woman was lying in bed, the sheets around her were smudged in crimson.  
"Who called the police?" he asked John from the far end of the room.  
"Neighbors heard the gunshot."  
"Makes no sense. Why would a man kill his wife in the middle of the night, wait there until the neighbors called the police, and then get caught and confess?"   
"Well, there was someone else, there must have been, that's what I've been saying for two years."  
"Yes, but what happened? Why didn't he just run?" Sherlock said as he took in his surroundings, searching for a detail that could explain, or kick start his trail of thought.   
"John, if someone was threatening a person you love, what would you do?"  
"I'd put myself between them." John answered simply, meeting Sherlock's gaze.  
"Oh, use your imagination." Sherlock complained.  
"I don't have to." he smiled placidly.  
Sherlock blinked a few times before he could think properly. Oh, right, an abusive parent plus a younger more vulnerable sibling. Makes sense. He caught himself still staring at John, now dangerously close, breaths almost mingling. He could smell the faintest hint of soap, coffee, and gun powder. A scent just as paradoxical as its owner. Fascinating, but dangerous. Sherlock turned abruptly and moved outside into the living room, feeling John following behind him.  
He was going through the couple's bookcase when John spoke again.  
"It's funny" he said, his back turned to Sherlock, looking at the frames hanging on the walls, "I always end up looking at their wedding photos, and they're always lovely. Harry had one similar to this." He pointed at a picture of the late Mrs. Knight where she had her back turned to the camera, her dress tails trailing behind her elegantly.  
Sherlock's brain stuttered for a moment, his memory recalling data that he had yet to be aware of storing. There was another photo like this one, same style, same black and white effect… a photo of the couple from yesterday.  
"John! The photos!"  
John turned around in confusion "What about them?"   
"All of them had similar photos! He said even as he started striding towards the wall, his body acting of its own accord. He took the frame off the wall, and pointed at the tiny signature in the corner of the picture.   
"J.H. We need to find the photographer, now!"  
\-----  
John had what felt like the first of many arguments with Sherlock about him staying behind, leaving John to enter the photographer's flat. His brilliant conclusion was indeed correct, all couples had had the same wedding photographer: Jefferson Hope.   
John thought of calling for back-up, but he was too desperate to catch the psycho with his own hands, he could not tolerate the idea of not confronting him after all this time. Sherlock didn't even seem to consider the idea of calling for back-up.  
Eventually, John gave up and told him he could come along as long as he stayed behind him. Fortunately, His Highness conceded.  
As John was considering how they could break in, Sherlock pushed him aside impatiently, holding what looked like a narrow pin in his hand. He casually picked the lock until it clicked open.   
"Learn that at boarding school, posh boy?"  
"Actually, yes." Sherlock gave him a dazzling smile as they entered.  
They move carefully and in utter silence. The flat looked almost normal. Its regular occupant was clearly missing however. Sherlock pointed in the direction of an easily missed door at the end of the hall, and John opened it quietly.  
He stood at the entrance for a moment, his nose registering a strong smell of ink and chemicals, and his eyes attempting to adjust themselves to the darkness. Behind him, Sherlock clicked the light on and they could finally get a full view of the horrible scene. The walls were covered in photos of couples, both on their wedding days and on the days they were murdered.   
John felt his stomach twisting, knowing what was to come. He moved along the small room until he saw it. A picture of Harry and Clara in white, holding hands and smiling at each other, and next to it, another picture of them holding hands as well, but with blood covering their faces.  
He closed his eyes, and took an unconscious step back. Somehow, it felt the same as the day he had found them there, the same stab of pain and loss all over again. He couldn’t suppress a startled gasp at the feeling of a warm hand on his shoulder.  
"Are you alright?" Sherlock said, watching him with concern. John's hand moved without permission, and covered Sherlock's elegant, pale fingers still resting on his shoulder.  
"Fine." though his voice didn't support his claim.  
"You found him John, you did it. It's over."  
"I didn't find him, you did, you brilliant prat."  
"I couldn't have if you hadn't pointed out the photos to me. Sentiment." He rolled his eyes.  
John laughed and squeezed Sherlock's hand in his for a moment before they left for NSY.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, it's PROBABLY gonna be 6 chapters.. so, not too long to go.   
> Have a lovely day wherever you are. Love.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a visit from Mycroft, and then a visit from someone else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! So, I'm still not sure how to use archive warnings... I mean, this fic has some violence in it, but not half of what you could see in any movie on TV any time of the day, so I don't know, I didn't use any warnings, but right now I feel like I should warn you, this chapter has some angst, some violence, and some poorly written porn. Be prepared!

Thump, thump, thump. Sherlock could easily recognize Mycroft's steps on the stairs from a mile away. And it wasn't just his stupid umbrella thumping along with his stupid feet, it was also the pompous peacock strut that he never failed to demonstrate.

So, before the door to his flat opened, Sherlock yelled over at Mycroft to go away and never come back, but sadly, you could only do so much when you're not an exorcist.

"Why so rude, brother mine?" Mycroft said as he let himself in and sat in the chair across from Sherlock. "And here I was thinking you'd be in a good mood, given the recent… developments." He obnoxiously over-uttered every syllable in the last word with a creepy smile.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Sherlock glared, knowing exactly what Mycroft was on about.

"Don't you really? I seem to notice you have decided to expand your clientele, though I don't think it would be accurate to call D.I. Watson a client, really."

"How is the diet, Mycroft?" It was a feeble blow, but it was all Sherlock had. He refused to blush or fidget nervously in front of Mycroft. Because yes, John has been spending a delightfully unreasonable amount of time at Baker Street with Sherlock over the past ten days, and Sherlock could not have been happier about it.

Of course, they pretended it was for the case, but in reality no progress was actually happening. Jefferson Hope was nowhere to be found. Fortunately, a list of all his clients was found in his flat. Excluding those who have yet to complete a year of marriage, and those who were no longer together, all couples were made aware of the threat and were assigned protection in hope of catching the psychopath red-handed. However, Hope had yet to attack any more couples, and so, all they could do for now was wait.

And yet, every evening after work, John would show up at 221B with a bag of takeaway and stay there until midnight. Sometimes they went out to have dinner at Angelo's, and sometimes John accompanied him on his clients' cases. It proved very useful to have John tag along, not just because he was a police officer with a gun always at the ready, but also because the way they worked and talked together made Sherlock think more clearly and get to the bottom of mysteries quicker for some reason.

One night, in a haze of post-case euphoria, he had called John his conductor of light, and immediately felt so embarrassed he thought his face might have melted, but John had just looked at him with twinkling eyes and a little smile that made his heart flutter madly. That was the moment he knew was done for, and he was at the mercy of one John Watson and his navy blue eyes.

"You ought to remember, caring is not an advantage." Mycroft pulled him out of his reverie.

"Oh you're still here," Sherlock sighed. "It's just work, Mycroft. Shut up about it already."

"And yet you've been spending all your time with him and now you’re solving crimes together. Might we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?"

"What do you want, Mycroft? If I know you at all, you haven't come here just to talk about John."

"You ought to have more faith in me, little brother. I do care about your personal life as you very well know." Mycroft feigned a hurt expression, but took out a file from the inside pocket of his jacket all the same. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

\-----

That night, John kissed him. It was strange, unexpected, and utterly glorious. They were watching crap telly after dinner. John was quietly giggling each time Sherlock made a comment on the stupid television show that was on, and Sherlock felt victorious every time he did.

He leaned across John's lap to retrieve the remote control, only to find himself on the receiving end of a scorching kiss. He wordlessly melted into it, nibbling softly at John's lips before he opened his mouth. He had no idea how much he had wanted this until it started. Moments later, they were both panting as their lips and tongues swirled together in a heated kiss.

John stopped for a moment, and looked at Sherlock with hooded eyes, gently swiping his thumb over his lower lip.

"I've never wanted anyone this bad." He said, his eyes searching Sherlock's face.

Sherlock kissed him again deeply, and pulled him up on his feet. Soon, they were both divested of all clothes and writhing on Sherlock's bed.

Sherlock climbed on top of the warm body, hungrily seeking more kisses. John welcomed him in his arms and took his lips in his mouth again. It felt like John's hands were everywhere, caressing Sherlock's back, teasing his neck and nipples, stroking his stomach, brushing by his public hair, and kneading at his arse. He writhed helplessly on top of John, trying to coordinate their movements, but they were both too frantic and hungry for each other to slow down.

"God" John sighed once he let go of Sherlock's lips "You're amazing."

Sherlock shuddered at the words, feeling a flush rising from his neck to his cheeks. He buried his face in John's neck, breathing in the scent of warm skin. John's breathing was harsh and quick when he spoke again.

"Sherlock, can I… I want to taste you…"

A soft tremor took hold of Sherlock's body as he nodded desperately. He made to move and lie beneath John on the bed, but he stopped him.

"No, come here, up here" he said grabbing Sherlock's biceps and gently guiding him up the bed so that he was kneeling directly above John's face.

"Turn around, face the other way" John instructed, and Sherlock did, suddenly understanding what John wanted, and feeling his heart beat even faster, and his veins aflame with desire.

John grabbed his waist and pulled him down a bit. He started kissing and licking at his balls and perineum before he moved gently to the tight ring of muscle. Sherlock moaned embarrassingly loudly at the feel of John's tongue caressing his hole softly but hungrily. He could not help moving and swirling his hips on John's mouth, relishing the soft groans John was making. John stopped for a moment, hands going up and down Sherlock's flanks.

"Delicious," he whispered appreciatively and resumed his ministrations, but he moved one hand down to his own cock and started pulling slowly at himself.

Sherlock was drinking in the sight before him, his own erection was bobbing in front of him, John's body was splayed underneath him, and he was in full view of a mouth-wateringly gorgeous cock being stroked in front of him. He started bouncing gently, fucking himself on John's wet tongue, feeling the beginnings of that delicious tingling sensation creeping in. he wasn't going to last long.

"John…" he whispered between moans and sighs, "John, I'm going to…" but before he finished his sentence, his whole body was shivering as pure ecstasy took over it. He threw back his head as his cock twitching untouched and sending creamy ribbons of semen across John's chest and stomach.

After what felt like an eternity, he opened his eyes to find John still stroking himself desperately. Without thinking, he descended, placing his forearms on either side of his torso and leaning on them to take John in his mouth. It wasn't long before he felt him shiver underneath him, bitter creamy shots of fluid filling Sherlock's mouth as he felt John still licking lazily at his hole. He swallowed with relish and closed his eyes in utter bliss.

His limbs felt like fluid as he shifted to face John again. John smiled adoringly at him as he took him in his arms, and they both fell asleep like that.

\---

When John became a police officer, his brain had somehow reprogrammed its trigger reactions accordingly. His senses responded sharply and immediately whenever he heard certin noises.

So, when his ear caught the soft click of a gun's safety catch being turned off, he opened his eyes, immediately trying to register his surroundings.

It was dark, and the immediate sensory input was of a warm body in his arms and another looming over his head. He felt his arms unconsciously wrap themselves tighter around Sherlock as he blinked repeatedly in the dark, feeling cold metal against his temple.

"Oh, you're up. Excellent, we can start right away." The man pointing a gun to his head said.

He slowly lifted his head, eyes gradually adjusting to the faint light slipping through the window. Jefferson Hope was standing by the bed, one gun in his right hand, pointed at John, and another sitting idly in his left hand.

"I would appreciate it if you didn't move. No need to wake him up." He nodded at Sherlock "This is more about you, really."

"What is about me?" John asked just as he felt Sherlock shift in his arms, his head was resting on John's right arm and his face was tucked under his chin, but he started moving back, still too groggy to understand what was going on. Hope moved the gun slowly to point it at Sherlock, and John's heart sank.

"Don't" he said to Hope as he put his left hand on Sherlock's face.

"Don't move. It's okay, I won't let anything happen to you." He whispered in his ear.

Sherlock opened his eyes in alarm, looked at him, and then looked at the other man. John could see the moment he realized what was happening, but there was no time to talk.

"Today we're going to be conducting a social experiment." Jefferson suddenly said in a terrifyingly mechanical tone, reminiscent of a documentary's voice-over. John and Sherlock exchanged a look.

"You see," Jefferson went on "You're not really the intended target group of my research, but well, one flawed specimen can't hurt anybody." He chuckled.

"What kind of experiment?" Sherlock asked, sounding, to John's horror, genuinely curious.

"Oh, I'm glad you asked Mr. Holmes. You see, I have very meticulous standards. First, I photograph the couple's wedding, watch them exchanges vows and promise eternal love. I then watch them closely to see if they fit the profile. I wait one year, and pay them a visit." He paused and looked at John with a small smile.

"Mr. Henry Knight remains the only exception in my experiments. He was the only one to pull the trigger. Your sister and her wife were the first. Oh, it was most fascinating. How one person could actually die for another. Don't you think?"

John felt his jaw clenching, adrenaline pumping in his system. He looked at Sherlock, frantically trying to communicate, trying to come up with a plan.

"I have been watching you, detective inspector. I know you have been after me, but you can't stop this. You see, I'm at the verge of acquiring groundbreaking findings."

"You point a gun at someone's head and tell them to kill their spouse or else you'll kill them. Yes I can see, how very truly groundbreaking." Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"As I said, you don't really fit my criteria, you're not even married. But I was watching you. I saw you at my flat and I couldn't resist. You looked like you could be worshipping at his feet." He gestured at Sherlock again "It was an absolutely fascinating display. I had to include you in my experiment."

John felt something cold being pressed into his left hand. He turned his head to find Hope shoving a gun in it, but still pointing the other gun at them. Jefferson grabbed John's hand, pointing the gun in it at Sherlock's head.

"Now. Shoot Mr. Holmes, or I'll shoot you both." He said calmly.

John looked into Sherlock's eyes, he was slowly coming to a conclusion on what he needed to do, but he felt a need to say something to him before it was too late. Sherlock looked up at him without a hint of fear, and John's heart ached at the incredible amount of faith and trust being put in him even as he still held a gun to that brilliant head.

He leaned slowly and pressed a kiss to his forehead, and Sherlock suddenly went tense, seemingly realizing what John was about to do, but there was not time to do anything. It was already too late.

It all happened so quickly and so slowly at the same time.

Pressing his leg to Sherlock's stomach, John shoved him suddenly off the bed and onto the floor, pointed the gun and shot Jefferson right between his eyes, but not before he felt raging fire cutting a hole in his left shoulder.

He was thrown back on the bed by the force of it, and he could feel the sheets being drenched in blood around him. The last thing he saw was the terror on Sherlock's beautiful face before he closed his eyes and gave in to the oblivion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully next chapter would be the last one,  
> Thanks to whoever's reading, enjoy your day. Love.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A trip to the hospital, and a trip back to Baker Street.

Snippets of two different worlds flashed before his eyes, he didn't know which one was real. They were both equally terrifying.

He blinked, and Harry was there, smiling at him, clinging to his arm like she always had done, like he was the only family and protection she had. She was laughing as she dragged him to meet Clara.

He blinked again, and there was Sherlock, staring down at him with fearful eyes. He watched as a tear fell from the lovely face and landed softly on his cheek. He wished he could lift a hand and touch him, maybe crack a joke and make him laugh with that rich silky voice, but his body was frozen, a fly suspended in amber. So he just stared at the shifting color in Sherlock's eyes, the milky softness of his face, and the warm pink of his lips. He then realized they were moving, saying something.

"Don't you dare die, you idiot!" Sherlock said, and John wanted to laugh but he couldn't. The harder he tried to cling, the quicker reality slipped away into hazy dreams of nights spent in a cold house, glass shattering around him, and Harry blinking blood out of her eyes and smiling.

 -------

Sherlock's eyes opened slowly as he felt John's hand stir under his. Two days and too many arguments with nurses later, he still hadn't left his side.

"Hey there, lovely" John crocked weakly, opening two puffy eyes, looking at Sherlock, and smiling as if he'd just had a long Sunday afternoon nap.

Sherlock sighed in relief, his heart twisting at the sight of the welted eyes and the pale face. John had lost so much blood. Sherlock shuddered at the memory of holding the limp body in his arms until the ambulance came, lost between attempting to stop the bleeding and keeping John conscious.

"You're even more stupid than I thought you were." he said even as he squeezed John's hand possessively.

"No. I knew you'd save me." John said, still smiling.

"How could you possibly be sure I'd be able to get you to the hospital in time?"

"I figured you had deduced everything that was going to happen and was prepared for it" He tried to shrug but winced as he remembered he had a shattered shoulder.

"I'm a detective John, not a psychic. Are those medications making you hallucinate?"

"No, I just believe in you." He answered simply, no hint of hesitation in his weakened voice, and took Sherlock's hand to his lips to plant a soft kiss there.

"No one can be that clever" Sherlock rolled his eyes, though he felt his cheeks flush like they did every time John called him brilliant or amazing or fantastic.

"You can."

A small huff of amusement and exasperation escaped Sherlock's mouth. "You're an idiot"

"Maybe, but here I am very much alive, aren't I?"

\-------

Sherlock decided that his new favorite pastime was to memorize and catalogue every detail about John. He lied in bed next to him, propped on his elbows watching him sleep.

John had been staying with him since he had been discharged from the hospital. It had taken a lot of sulking to convince him to stay at Baker Street at least until he got better, but Sherlock was eventually victorious.

Mycroft, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson were far from shy in pointing out how uncharacteristic of Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective and self-proclaimed sociopath, to not just have John stay over, but also dote on him like a love-sick teenager.

Sherlock didn't care, he had John, alive and safe, in his flat… in his bed, and he wanted to stay locked with him in their warm cocoon, to kiss and touch and smell him every waking minute of his life.

"Are you sniffing my hair, you mad man?" John opened his eyes to look up at Sherlock, who had his nose buried in the short blonde strands.

"It's for science" Sherlock resumed his sniffing shamelessly.

"I'm sure" John laughed as he turned to catch Sherlock's lips with his mouth. They kissed softly at first, lips fitting together like pieces of a puzzle. Sherlock slowly moved to lie half-on top of John, careful not to put any pressure on his left side.

"Take your clothes off" John whispered in his ear as his hand reached inside Sherlock's pajama bottoms. Sherlock moaned softly at the feeling.

"Why?" he asked lamely, his quick breath saying he knew exactly why.

"It's for science."

"The doctor said you shouldn't overexert yourself."

"Who says I'll overexert myself? Maybe I'll let you do all the work." He smiled smugly.

"You shouldn't be too sure of yourself, Watson" Sherlock raised an eyebrow, but he took off his t-shirt and pushed down his pants all the same. John was just in a pair of boxer shorts, and Sherlock wasted no time in pushing them down too.

They both groaned as their erections lined up, hot skin on skin. Sherlock started moving, already feeling his body shivering with rapture.

They both wrapped their hands around their joint lengths, and their mouths met again in a deep kiss. It was to John's taste in his mouth, to John's feel between his legs that Sherlock came, pleasure rippling through his body in sweet waves. John followed not long after, and they both lied there panting and kissing softly.

Sherlock slid is face back to John's neck to inhale his musky scent again, now mixed with sex.

"I love you" he rasped out unintentionally, the words just came out of their own accord and Sherlock's heart sank in fear as John froze beneath him.

He raised his eyes tentatively, only to find John beaming, eyes twinkling, giving Sherlock that look that always made his stomach flip and his blood dance, a look of pure reverence, and suddenly he was not afraid anymore.

"I love you too, mad man" he told him and gathered him again in his arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Done, phew! for some reason this last chapter was like "fuck you, you can't write me" and made me so frustrated, but here it is at last!   
> I hope you liked this. I'd like to thank everyone who left comments and kudos, you guys encourage me to write more and better and you're just lovely, seriously thank you!  
> Have a great day/ night everyone. Love xoxoxoxo


End file.
